


just as long as you know you got me

by higgsbosonblues



Category: Formula E RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: Aftercare, Dirty Talk, Fluff, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Rope Bondage, Shibari, celebratory porn, for the actual world champion Jev, i'm still so happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-12 02:04:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15329283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/higgsbosonblues/pseuds/higgsbosonblues
Summary: André grins then, thrusts his hips forward, his hand tightening around Jev’s wrist, holding him where he wants him. He looks a little bit dangerous, and Jev can’t help the shudder that runs through him before André’s even opened his mouth to speak. Adrenaline makes him oversensitive, and he curls his fingers, digs the tips into the hardness of André’s erection. André licks his lips before he speaks. “I told you that if you won the championship I was going to tie you to the bed and fuck you so hard you couldn't walk straight for a week.”--The Techeetah boys celebrate Jean-Éric's Formula E championship. With rope bondage. Because why not.





	just as long as you know you got me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lost_decade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_decade/gifts).



> I cannot justify this, it is filth. Here is a timeline:
> 
> 1\. Jean-Éric Vergne wins the FE championship  
> 2\. I have a small emotional breakdown  
> 3\. I am reminded of the earlier Jev/André fic I wrote in which André promises to tie Jev to the bed and fuck him so hard he can't walk straight if he wins the championship  
> 4\. Somehow this turns into me spending the next three days writing 6,000 words of fairly intense rope bondage porn
> 
> Set on the Saturday after Race 1 and Jev's championship win. Technically this exists in the same universe/follows on from [aforementioned earlier fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15081929) but as they're only really linked by their depravity you don't have to have read one for the other to make sense. 
> 
> Shoutout to everyone on tumblr who also had Many Feelings about the FE this weekend, and especially to @lost_decade for the initial idea/cheerleading/read-through/supplying of the Punta del Este pool video. 
> 
> Title is from Side to Side by Ariana Grande, as it is of course the official anthem of being dicked so hard you can't walk properly after.

He goes to André first because it’s all he _can_ do, because there was never any question of him doing anything else. He runs there, feels like he could probably run a marathon pretty easily right now if anyone asked him to, only vaguely cognisant of the camera crews trailing him, and he launches himself at André’s arms because he knows that André will catch him.

André is still wearing his helmet, actually looks like he’s on the verge of trying to take it off before he catches sight of Jean-Éric running at him and opens his arms, drawing him close and spinning them, moving with him as Jev jumps for sheer delight, moving upwards and outwards and everywhere at once, and he’s crying and laughing and André is saying something that he can’t hear over the clamour of the media and the muffling effect of André’s helmet, but he’s nodding and jumping and saying _yes, yes, yes._

 

He doesn’t know what to do with himself after the podium celebrations, after the press duties and after he’s been around the garage and made sure he’s congratulated everyone once, twice. They’ve been given glasses of Mumm, of course, but Jev has the feeling it’s being rationed, tries to keep his mind on the race tomorrow and the championship battle still there for the taking. God, it’s hard, though, he wants to snatch the bottle and drink from it, wants to go somewhere dark and loud and be messy and free and wild.

At a loss, he goes for a shower, the stickiness of champagne only diluted by the water André had chucked over him in the doorway to the drivers room, changing into jeans and a Techeetah shirt. Combing his hair, he stares at himself in the mirror, trying to discern any changes in his face, some kind of tangible proof that he’s a winner, a champion. As always, there’s a strange edge of disconnect to his joy, a gnawing desire to know that this is real. He’s learned not to trust the seeming infallibility of a win, of even holding a trophy in his hands. His face doesn’t look any different.

His phone starts ringing at that point, and he isn’t surprised when he sees André’s name on the screen. He has the feeling André would laugh were he ever to tell him, but Jean-Éric is secretly convinced that André can somehow sense when he’s about to think himself into a negative spiral.

“Hey,” he says, stepping away from the mirror and going to the window instead, staring out at the beautiful views over Manhattan.

“Are you in your room?” André asks without bothering with pleasantries, and Jean-Éric smiles, leaning on the windowsill.

“I am,” he says. “I just got out of the shower. I don’t really know what to do with myself.”

“That’s a good mental image,” André says, and Jev can hear his smile. “Can I come and help you celebrate?”

“We have a race tomorrow,” Jev says, mostly just to draw out the tease, a little giddy, because as much as André seems to take life’s rulebook as a system of suggested guidance, he knows the other driver won’t actually get them drunk the night before the last race of the season. “We have to be good.”

“There are other ways of being bad,” André says, his voice low. “Ones that don’t show up in a drug test.”

Jean-Éric bites his lip, grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. “Oh, really,” he says, as casually as he can manage.

“Really,” André confirms. “I’ll be there in a minute, OK?”

 

André hugs him again in the doorway of the suite, his nose pressed against Jev’s temple, arms tight around him, and Jev leans against him for a moment, breathing, temporarily overwhelmed all over again.

“Hey, champion,” André says into his hair, extricating himself enough to push the door closed and then stroking his thumbs across Jev’s browbone, smoothing his eyebrows, holding his face and just looking at him. The blue of his eyes is so intense, even with the way his pupils are blown dark and huge, and Jev can’t help but squirm in his grasp, can’t deal with being _seen_ so close up. He’s never met anyone who can read him like André does, to his eternal relief. He trusts André implicitly with the level of power the older driver has over him, but he could never allow it from anyone else.

He closes his eyes, feels André’s thumbs sweep over his eyelids. “Thank you,” he says, his hands going to André’s hips, tucking his fingers into his belt loops. “For today, for - for everything. I couldn’t have done it if you weren’t here.”

André hushes him. “This was all you,” he says, and even with his eyes closed Jean-Éric can feel how close he’s standing, feel his breath ghost over his cheek. “It’s all you, baby.”

Jean-Éric wants to interrupt, to argue, to explain that he doesn’t just mean on track, that he’s talking about the calming effect André has on him, the way that André is a steady and constant presence amidst the maelstrom of his own emotions, a fixed point of safety to come back to over and over again. He wants to make sure André _knows_ , but then André’s thumbs move to the high points of his cheekbones and he blinks his eyes open again. André smiles at him and moves in to kiss him, and Jean-Éric thinks _of course he knows_ and opens his mouth to André’s tongue.

He allows André to steer him backwards through the suite, hands strong on his waist, guiding him up the step into the bedroom until his legs hit the edge of the bed and he wobbles and sits down inelegantly, dragging André down to straddle him.

André staggers a little, slides, ends up mostly on his lap, and Jean-Éric can tell the two of them are going to end up crashing to the floor any second now but doesn’t care, fisting his hands into André’s hair and dragging their mouths together. André grunts against him, reaching up to tug Jean-Éric’s hands away, and Jev is momentarily confused, but then André’s hands are at his shoulders and he’s shoved on to his back with some force, landing sprawled out.

“Hey, remember what I told you after Le Mans?” André says, taking advantage of Jean-Éric’s momentary frown as he tries to think back to get on to the bed properly, kneeling either side of Jean-Éric’s waist and urging him further up.

Jean-Éric grins up at him, more focused on the feeling of André’s strong thighs bracketing him, on the way his jeans are already stretched tight over his crotch. He reaches up to run his hand over the denim, but André catches his wrist, staring down at him, breathing fast. “Remember?”

Jean-Éric groans a little, shifting his weight. André had told him a lot of things in the hours and days after Le Mans, when he’d been too exhausted and too angry to even cry. After the stewards’ ruling had come through, André had found him sitting on the floor of his hotel room bouncing a tennis ball off the wall over and over, blank and numb with despair. He’d sat down next to him, let Jean-Éric rest his tired head on his shoulder, talked until the constricting lump in his throat had subsided enough for him to reply. Still, he doesn’t get why André’s bringing that up now -

“No,” André says, reading his mind again, or maybe just reading the tension Jev knows has appeared on his face. “Not then. Right after.” He rubs his thumb over the bones of Jev’s wrist, then guides his hand between his legs, pressing the flat of Jev’s hand hard against his erection and rocking his hips into the pressure. He bites his lip and Jean-Éric moans, curling his fingers around André’s dick the best he can through the stiff denim. “Maybe you don’t remember. I was sucking your cock at the time.”

“Fuck, André,” Jev mumbles, rolling his own hips up, seeking pressure, but André’s sitting too far forward and he finds no resistance to push against. “Just tell me.”

André grins then, thrusts his hips forward, his hand tightening around Jev’s wrist, holding him where he wants him. He looks a little bit dangerous, and Jev can’t help the shudder that runs through him before André’s even opened his mouth to speak. Adrenaline makes him oversensitive, and he curls his fingers, digs the tips into the hardness of André’s erection. André licks his lips before he speaks. “I told you that if you won the championship I was going to tie you to the bed and fuck you so hard you couldn't walk straight for a week.”

He makes direct eye contact when he says it, the bastard, and the smirk spreading across his face is enough to make Jean-Éric’s dick twitch, boxers damp already. “André,” he says, laughing breathlessly when it comes out as a groan. “We have to race tomorrow.”

André shrugs. Jean-Éric thinks his protests might have held more weight had his fingers not moved to André’s waistband as he spoke, fumbling with the button of his jeans. “You’ve raced with worse before.”

He bats Jev’s hand out of the way, pulling his Techeetah shirt over his head and tossing it off the end of the bed. Jev reaches up again, handsy, wanting to touch skin, but André intercepts him yet again and grabs him by the wrists, pulling his arms together so he's held in a prayer position. “I saw you,” André says, and his voice is full of glee. “On D’Ambrosio’s Instagram, I saw you like this.” He jerks his hands to demonstrate, and Jev whimpers, remembering how he'd held his arms up as if handcuffed, the exaggerated moue he'd pulled in the back of the police car. “Begging for it.”

“Is that why you wanted to wear the police hat? Wanted to punish me?” Jev gasps out, curling his fingers into loose fists, torn between closing his eyes in submission and seeing André’s gaze darken, the muscles in his arms and shoulders shifting as he adjusts his grip on Jean-Éric’s wrists. André doesn't answer, just smirks again, which Jev supposes is answer enough in itself.

“OK,” he says, and he does let his eyes close then, tipping his head back to expose his throat, as much surrender in his pose as he can muster. André makes a bitten-off sound in his throat, his fingers tightening briefly around Jev’s wrists before he lets go, and Jev feels the bed dip and rise as André gets up.

He blinks his eyes open. “Where are you going?” he asks before he can stop himself, mentally kicking himself for his neediness, but André pauses in the doorway and smiles at him warmly. _He likes this_ , Jev thinks. _He likes it when I'm desperate for him_. The thought makes him shift, hot and restless.

“I'll be back in a second,” André says. “Just getting something. Take your clothes off for me.”

Jev nods and scrambles out of his jeans and shirt. His cock is throbbing already, and once he's naked he can't help but close his fingers around it, giving himself a few brief strokes to ease the tension that's been building in him.

“God, I want to take a photo of you like this,” André says from the doorway, and Jev blinks his eyes open, gasping at the mental image, his fingers already wet with precum.

“You can't,” he manages to get out, and André smiles, crossing over to the bed and dropping a plastic bag on to it that Jev hadn't noticed him carrying when he'd arrived.

“I know,” André says, and he sounds genuinely regretful. “But I want to.”

He sits down next to Jev and leans in to kiss him, slipping one hand between his legs to rub at his balls, making Jev moan into the kiss. “What's in the bag?” Jev asks when André pulls back, attention torn between curiosity and not wanting André to stop moving his hand.

André grins and leans over to grab the bag, dipping inside it. “This is for later,” he tells Jev, producing a multi-pack of Kinder Buenos from it and tossing them on to the nightstand. “And this is for now.”

Jev’s attention had been caught by the chocolate, a sudden gut-punch of emotion that André had obviously been to a shop especially to buy them, that he'd remembered they were his favourites, and it takes his brain a moment to catch up when he looks back at André’s hands and sees that he's holding out a neatly-coiled length of black nylon rope.

“Andre,” Jean-Éric says weakly. “You didn't.”

André gives him a smile of disarming serenity. “You know I've spent a lot of time in Japan,” he says, unwinding the rope and re-coiling it in loose loops around one hand. “It's called Shibari.”

Jean-Éric swallows, can't look away from the movement of André’s hand as it winds the rope. “Don't tell me you brought that through airport security,” is all he can think of to say, and André snorts.

“Of course not,” he says. “We’re in New York, they have sex shops here, you know. Quite close to the track, actually.”

Jean-Éric has to close his eyes at that, the thought of André in shades and cap pulled low, perusing racks of bondage gear and thinking about using them on him. “Jesus,” he breathes.

“You want to?” André says, eyeing him carefully, indicating the coil of rope. “I mean, it's not - I won't do anything too elaborate. Nothing that's going to leave bruises.”

“I want bruises,” Jev interrupts before he can stop himself, hoarse, and he sees André inhale, his fingers stuttering in their smooth movements.

He visibly composes himself, though he can't stop the heated gaze he flicks over Jean-Éric’s body. “Nothing that leaves bruises,” he repeats. “Not today, at least.”

Jean-Éric reaches for him, and André pushes at his shoulders, getting him to lie back and kissing a slow trail down his neck, all tongue and teeth. Jev groans, reaching up to hold André’s head in place, urging him on. André runs his hand down Jev’s chest, trailing his fingertips down the defined channel between his pectorals, then sits back. He pushes and pulls, and Jev allows his body to be arranged passively until he's lying in the middle of the bed, legs spread with André kneeling between them.

“Arms above your head,” André says, crossing his wrists to demonstrate, and Jean-Éric complies, stretching his arms and pressing his wrists together. It's a vulnerable position, exposing the soft belly of his arms, the hollows of his armpits and the dip of his stomach. His skin erupts in goosebumps, eyes fluttering shut as André leans over him.

He's slow and methodical as he folds the length of it precisely in half then loops it around the thick wooden beam running across the headboard between two of the vertical struts. Jev cranes his head back to watch as he tucks the free ends through and then loops the rope back through the next set of struts, pulling down the lengths and tying a series of quick knots until he's left with an inverted triangle of rope that ends just above Jev’s hands.

“Where did you learn to do this?” Jev asks, and André smiles enigmatically, wrapping the rope around his wrists, tugging it tight, slipping his fingers beneath the knots to check they don't pinch.

“I taught myself,” he says. “It's very beautiful. Once you master the different types of knots it's easy enough.” His gestures are fluid and confident, the economy of movement Jev loves so much in him. He stops after three coils, each with a knot bisecting the space between his wrists, allowing Jev enough space to move his arms slightly. André tugs gently on the free ends of the rope.

“I haven’t had much chance to practice it with other people,” he continues after a moment, apparently satisfied. The look of concentration on his face makes Jean-Éric bite his lip. André moves with such assurance. “But you can do some incredible things with it, suspensions and all sorts. It's really an art form. Feel OK?” he asks, tapping Jev’s wrists, and Jean-Éric nods. He tosses his head, trying to flick an errant strand of hair from his eyes, and André reaches down with his other hand to brush it away gently.

“Thank you,” Jev murmurs, nuzzling at André’s wrist, and André smiles and cups his face briefly. He moves back then, standing up to take his jeans off. Jean-Éric moves towards him involuntarily, gasping when his motion is stopped abruptly by the pull of the rope. André notices, of course he does, smiling with heat in his eyes.

“You look so good like this,” André tells him as he climbs back on to the bed. “Tell me straight away if it hurts or you go numb, OK?” He glances up at Jev, face serious, until Jev nods, wiggling his fingers to demonstrate that he has a small range of movement. André’s face relaxes, and he settles himself between Jev’s legs again, fishing in the plastic bag once more and producing a bottle of lube, tossing it on to the blankets.

“You're very well prepared,” Jev says, raising an eyebrow. “Were you a Boy Scout?”

André just grins and leans down to kiss him. He holds his body above Jean-Éric’s, braced on his forearms, so Jev has to stretch up to meet him, whining in the back of his throat. André laughs into his mouth, pulling back repeatedly, teasing him until Jev swears quietly.

He tips his head back when André nudges his nose against his jaw, nipping along the edge of his beard and licking over the vein that pulses in his throat. “You taste good,” André mumbles against his skin, then bites down, raking his teeth over the sensitive skin. Jean-Éric curses again, louder, jerking against his restraints.

He closes his eyes to better appreciate the sensation of André’s mouth running over his skin, the Belgian knowing exactly when to use his teeth to make him shudder and keen, licking over each nipple in turn and then leaving light bite marks scattered down the paler skin of his stomach. Jev arches his back, yanking at the ropes binding his wrists, twisting his hands so he can grab on to the knots above to anchor himself. André runs his fingertips down the exposed skin of his underarms, the pressure of his fingernails the lightest scratch. He digs in gently to the hollow of his armpits, a tiny flare of sharp pain that makes Jev catch his breath and grit his teeth.

“Up,” André says, sitting back and pushing at Jev’s knees, encouraging him to bend them and spread his legs. He kisses his way slowly down Jean-Éric’s inner thigh and Jev bites his own lip so hard he tastes blood, swallowing down the noises he wants to make.

“No,” André says, looking up at him. “Don't be quiet. I want to hear you.”

Jev chokes out a moan, lifting his foot to wrap his leg around André and pull him closer. André gives him a quick smile, tickling his fingertips down the instep of his foot where it presses into his side. Then he grabs Jev’s calf and lifts his leg over his shoulder, pushing the other up and back at the same time, dipping his head and licking over his balls with the flat of his tongue.

“Ah, fuck,” Jean-Éric gasps out, writhing, instinctively trying to close his legs. He feels too exposed with his arms caught above his head and his legs spread so obscenely, and the urge to hide his face is overwhelming. He whines, turning his head to the side and pressing his face into his own upper arm.

“Yes,” André says. “Fuck.” Jean-Éric thinks he might be laughing, the bastard, whines again breathy and high as he feels André’s mouth trailing lower still.

“No, you can't, that's -” and he's about to say _disgusting_ when he feels André’s tongue press against his hole and finds he can't form any words at all. André’s tongue is stiff, pushing just slightly into him, and Jean-Éric is panting hotly into the dark space where his arm is raised above his head, face aflame, digging his heels into André’s shoulder blades.

André shifts, pushing Jean-Éric’s thighs further apart until he feels the muscles stretch and burn, giving himself better access to lick at him. Jev is shaking, fingers slipping on the softness of the nylon rope where he clutches at it, feeling as though he's being opened mentally as well as physically. He’s spent most of his life trying to rid himself of all his vulnerabilities and then André came along and worked his way into the softest and most hidden parts of him without even trying, and the strange thing is that Jev doesn't even _mind_.

“Please, André,” he says, muffled, doesn't know what he's asking for, but André runs a soothing hand down the outside of one thigh and slaps his arse lightly. Jean-Éric giggles, breathless, flexing his thighs, and then cries out when he feels André’s finger pushing against him, just dipping lightly inside him and then retreating.

“Yeah?” André says, and god, he sounds wrecked now too, voice thick with lust. Jev finally gathers the courage to turn his head, glancing down the line of his body to see André looking up at him, his lips red and rubbed raw, eyes lidded, hair in disarray. He waits until he's sure Jean-Éric is looking at him, holding his gaze and pushing his forefinger inside him.

Jean-Éric hisses, blinking fast, pinned by André’s bold stare as much as the ropes that bind his wrists. André doesn’t press his finger any further inside him, just crooks it, almost stroking, letting Jev get used to the sensation and teasing him just enough to keep him moaning and desperate. “Yeah?” he says again, and then he dips his head to lick slowly up the length of Jean-Éric’s cock, lapping up the milky fluid running from the tip with obscene relish.

André somehow manages to coordinate himself enough to start pushing his tongue inside him again while uncapping the lube and coating his fingers, and the next time he pushes his forefinger inside Jev there’s no resistance at all, just a slick slide and the feeling of being filled that drives him crazy. André’s still mouthing at him, and normally round about now Jev would be grabbing at his hair, holding him in place, but the ropes render him powerless and he can only tremble and beg.

André pushes another finger into him, and Jev jerks against his restraints, his entire upper body arching from the bed. André curls his fingers at the same time as he says “Hey, take it easy, you'll fuck your shoulders up.”

“I _can't_ ,” Jev says and then stops, unable to remember what the rest of his sentence had been when André twists his fingers, fucking in right up to the knuckles. “Jesus, André.”

André nuzzles at the crease of his thigh briefly. “Can you get hard again?” he asks, and Jev makes an incoherent sound, part questioning, part moan. “If I let you come now, can you go again?”

“If you _let_ me come?” Jev says, voice breaking every time André’s fingers move inside him.

“Well, yeah,” André says, cool as can be as he twists his wrist and pushes the tip of his third finger in. “You're literally tied up and at my mercy. If I wanted to I could just walk out and leave you here, hard and begging for me.”

Jev doesn't bother trying to hide his reaction to that; couldn't anyway, with the way his dick jerks against his stomach, dripping. André chuckles, pushes his fingers in deeper until Jean-Éric groans at the stretch. “You like that thought?” he says. “Interesting.”

“Don't you dare,” Jev gasps out, and André just laughs. His fingers have stilled, just held inside him, letting him get used to the thickness.

“So can you?”

“Yeah, I think - I think so,” Jev says, closing his eyes again as André laps at him, everything wet and hot, and hums in approval.

“Good,” André says decisively, and starts moving his fingers again, sitting up slightly and bending his head down to give himself a better angle to fuck his fingers in while he sucks hard at the tip of Jev’s cock, cheeks hollowing obscenely.

Jean-Éric shudders all over, has just enough time to nudge at André’s shoulder with the heel of one foot in warning before he's coming, crying out, the bed creaking as he leans on the ropes around his wrists. André curls his fingers inside him, pushing against his prostate at just the right moment, and Jean-Éric thrashes, narrowly avoids kicking him in the head. André stays with him, suckling him through the aftershocks, his fingers only slowing when he's whimpering with sensitivity.

“Hey, hey,” André murmurs, sitting up and reaching to stroke his face, and Jean-Éric realises he's almost sobbing, breathing in harsh gasps. It's probably partly just the sheer adrenaline of the day getting to him, but the sensation of being tied and helpless, completely at André’s mercy, sharpens his pleasure, makes him feel a little bit wild.

He turns his face into André’s gentle hand, licking over the salt on his palm, grunting when André slides his fingers free of him.

“Sorry,” André breathes, crawling up his body to kiss him. Jean-Éric turns his head away at first, squeamish at the taste of himself on André’s tongue. “No, don't be prissy,” André chides him gently, licking at his mouth until he parts his lips. He slides his tongue alongside Jean-Éric’s, forcing him to taste himself, and Jev groans despite himself. 

“Wanna fuck you,” André mumbles into the kiss after a moment, running his hands up the taut muscles of Jean-Éric’s arms where they're stretched above his head. He lifts his head to look at his handiwork, and Jev shivers at the look in his eyes, the dark appreciation there. His fingers skim over the ropes, tracing the knotwork and stroking at the soft skin of Jev’s wrists, already feeling tender where he's strained against the bonds. “Wanna fuck you while you're tied down for me, make you scream.”

It's not the most eloquent André’s dirty talk has ever been - and Jev has been lucky enough to be on the receiving end of some _very_ eloquent dirty talk from André over the last few months - but nevertheless it makes him moan his name, stretching up to mouth at his jaw, not quite able to reach him for a kiss.

“Do it,” he murmurs, the words buzzing against André’s stubbled jaw, and André nuzzles at him, eyes still on his bound wrists. “André, fucking do it, god.”

André blinks back to himself at that, pressing a kiss to the corner of Jev’s mouth and kneeling, hands at his hips. He lifts him slightly, shuffling his knees under Jev’s lower back until he gets the hint and wraps his legs around André’s waist loosely.

He gives Jev a quick smile as he reaches for the lube to slick himself up, gaze flicking over his body appreciatively once again. “Man,” he says, and Jean-Éric catches the minute flutter of his eyelashes and the bitten-off inhale as he gets his hand around his erection. “Now I really do want to take a photo. I wish you could see how you look right now.”

“Stop thinking about your damn cameras and fuck me,” Jean-Éric demands, pressing his heels into the small of André’s back. His cock is still half-hard, and despite the release of his earlier orgasm he feels riled up, twitchy, desperate to feel André inside him.

André grins and leans down to kiss him, bracing his weight on one forearm. Jean-Éric moans when he feels the blunt head of André’s cock pressing against him, squeezing André with his thighs, trying to press him forward.

“God, you feel good,” André breathes, his forehead dropping to Jev’s cheek as he sinks inside of him, and Jev buries his nose in André’s hair, breathing the scent of his hair gel, squeezing his eyes shut tight and forcing himself to relax.

André doesn't stop, just presses in until his hips are flush with Jev’s arse, the weight of him held barely above his body, and _now_ Jev feels the ropes that hold him down. André starts moving inside him, and Jean-Éric wants to draw him close, to pull his hair, to rake his nails down André’s back. The angle of his arms and the way André has his hips tilted up against his thighs means he's essentially trapped, nowhere for him to get any leverage to meet André’s thrusts other than by locking his ankles around André’s waist and pulling him in tight. It’s frustrating and yet he loves it, tipping his head back and gasping André’s name, letting the ropes take his weight as he arches back.

Like the rest of him, André’s cock is thick and solid, and even with the three fingers Jev feels the burn and stretch. The sensation of being filled threatens to overwhelm him as it always does, making him gasp for breath, eyes wide and trained on the ceiling. André runs a hand down his side, sensitive as always to Jev’s need for reassurance, grounding him even as he presses his head into the curve of Jev’s neck.

“Please say I can move,” he says, muffled. His voice is shaking with the strain, and Jev shudders and nods, twisting his head to press open-mouthed kisses to André’s temple.

“Yes,” he says, and it comes out almost a whisper, lost against the damp skin of André’s hairline. André exhales and lifts himself again, bracing his hands either side of Jev’s torso and beginning to move his hips, slow and deep. He doesn’t quite meet Jev’s mouth for a kiss, just breathes against him, licking the sweat from his upper lip.

They’ve fucked plenty of times before but Jev can’t ever remember it feeling like this, the heat that seems to start from some deep part inside him and radiate outwards, his extremities tingling, cock already hard again, slapping against his stomach every time André thrusts into him. André keeps the pace slow but pushes in with as much force as he can muster, his pelvis flush to the back of Jev’s thighs so that Jev has to keep his core braced and his legs locked tight around his back. André glances down the line of his body, brings a hand to cup Jev’s arse and shuffles a little further forward so his hips are angled further up, and Jev can’t swallow the sharp cry when André thrusts into him again and the pleasure ricochets through his body.

The effect of the new angle isn’t just that André is able to hit his prostate with every thrust, but that he’s even more aware of the ropes, his arms stretched that little bit further as his upper body sinks to compensate for the higher angle of his hips. The rope holds him, and he tightens his core further to feel the way it carries his weight, the way he sways against the fulcrum of the knots every time André thrusts into him. The way André is folded across him means his cock rubs against André’s stomach with every thrust, and he can already feel it building again, rolling his hips the best he can.

He’s gasping for breath, mouth open wide and wet, and André lifts one hand, bracing his forearm across Jev’s chest and pushing his fingers into his mouth, smearing the wetness of his saliva down his chin. Jev whines and laps at him, biting down as André hooks his fingers inside his mouth, holding him there. His thrusts are speeding up now, and the heat is pouring from him, blinking sweat from his eyes. He’s muttering something too low for Jev to hear over the sounds of his own harsh breathing and the way the bed is creaking with André’s forceful movements, and the low hum of his voice adds to the swell of sensation until he feels like he’s floating outside of himself, something in his head breaking free and coalescing into a sweetness he’s only ever associated with winning. He knows he’s being loud, perhaps too loud for a hotel suite, but the sounds he’s making seem to come from somewhere outside himself and he’s powerless to stop himself. He’s dimly aware of André cursing above him, fucking into him hard and fast, raking his nails down the side of Jev’s neck. There’s nothing he can do, no way for him to steer this, and he gives in to it, letting André pound into his pliant body over and over, his cock dragging across the flat planes of André’s stomach until he gasps and arches, his spine bent back and arms straining as he spills over both of their chests, too stunned by the intensity to move or make a sound.

He must clench involuntarily, or maybe it’s just the feeling of Jev’s come splashing hot across his stomach that tips him over the edge, but André swears through gritted teeth, gasps his name and shudders to a halt before Jev has caught his breath, pushing impossibly deep into him one more time and holding himself there, his hips twitching in the cradle of Jev’s thighs as he comes inside him.

When André stills, dropping his forehead to Jev’s collarbones, Jev breathes out slowly, forcing his taut muscles to go limp, unwinding his legs from where they’re still gripped around André’s hips. “Fuck,” he mumbles, clearing his throat when his voice comes out hoarse, and he wonders just how loud he’d been by the end of things.

“Mm-hm,” André says without lifting his head. His back is still rising and falling rapidly where he’s bent over Jev, and he sounds a bit winded. Jev can’t help smirking just a little bit, although André can’t see it.

“OK,” André says after a minute, pushing himself up with apparent difficulty. He nuzzles at Jev’s jawline, pressing a kiss to his chin, then sits up and tilts Jev’s head back with two fingers, sucking in a breath. “Jesus, you’ve got some good marks there, sorry.” He runs his thumb down the line of Jean-Éric’s neck, following the trail his fingernails had taken before, and Jev hisses at the slight sting.

“It’s fine,” he mumbles, swallowing as André’s fingers run over his throat. “I won’t shave tomorrow, it’ll cover it.” He licks over his lips, still dazed, enjoying the gentle touch running over his sensitised skin.

André laughs softly, and Jean-Éric makes a disgruntled sound when he feels André’s hands at the ropes on his wrist, loosening the knots and unwinding the coils with deft movements. He lets his arms flop to the pillows above his head, sinking back into their softness, momentarily unable to remember how to move. André smiles down at him, untying the knots around the bedposts without looking, and something aches inside Jev’s chest, reading the certainty of safety in André’s hands.

“Wiggle your fingers for me,” André says to him, and Jean-Éric closes his eyes, suddenly impossibly tired, but complies. There’s a soft thump as André drops the coil of rope to the floor, and then his hands are on Jev’s, rubbing the feeling back into his tingling fingertips, gently guiding his arms down.

“Look,” André says quietly, rubbing over his wrists, and Jean-Éric opens his eyes with some difficulty, can’t contain the quiet gasp when he sees the ghost of the ropes imprinted into his skin, three patterned lines embossed around each arm. He turns his hands palm-up to see the way the marks form a bracelet, breathing deeply. His shoulders are aching now the adrenaline is wearing off, but he doesn’t care. André presses a kiss to the marks on each wrist and then rubs his thumbs over them, massaging the blood back into circulation. “They’ll disappear soon,” André says, his strong hands moving up to massage Jev’s shoulders, thumbs digging into the soreness there and making him grunt.

“I don’t want them to,” Jev says sleepily, pulling André down to him. André laughs again and allows Jev to pull him close and insinuate himself into his arms, one hand still massaging the back of his neck.

“You wouldn’t be saying that if you had to explain why you had rope burn to the world’s assembled media before the race tomorrow,” André says, and Jev shrugs, then winces slightly when the movement jars his stiff shoulders.

“I’m a champion now, I can do what I like,” Jev says, smiling, and André snorts laughter, his arms tightening briefly around him.

“Of course,” he says, gently mocking, and then cups Jev’s jaw in one hand, kissing him slowly enough that it makes Jev sigh, the last vestiges of strength leaving his body. “I’m proud of you, you know that?” André whispers against his mouth, and Jean-Éric nods, keeps his eyes closed, doesn’t trust himself to speak, just breathing against him.

André kisses him again briefly, his thumb rubbing against the pad of his cheek, before he pulls back, clearing his throat slightly. “You should eat some of that chocolate,” he says, and Jean-Éric opens one eye to look at him. “For the sugar,” André clarifies, stretching back to grab the pack from the nightstand without letting his body stop touching Jev’s. “You’re gonna be all shaky.”

André feeds it to him in the end, completely indulging him, and then kisses him again to taste the vanilla and chocolate on his tongue.

“This was a good reward,” Jean-Éric says when they break apart, mostly asleep, and André laughs, crumpling the plastic wrapper and tossing it to the floor, reaching down to pull the blankets up around them.

“You deserve it.” André says, brushing the palm of his hand over Jean-Éric’s hair and reaching back to click off the overhead light. “You deserve everything. This is your year.”

 


End file.
